


The Making of Bread

by kathkin



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Samfro Week, Samfro Week Autumn 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 13:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: There were moments sometimes, in Bag End, where it felt as if he and Frodo were the only two hobbits in the Shire. It was as if the world had shrunk to the kitchen and the garden outside, and the making of bread, and their joined hands. Nothing else mattered.





	The Making of Bread

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Illegible_Scribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble) in the [SeasonalSamfro_Autumn_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SeasonalSamfro_Autumn_2019) collection. 

> **Prompt:** Baking
> 
> For Friday, September 27th.

The kitchen smelled like dough, and the green smell of the garden drifting through the window, and distantly of wood smoke. Sam had flour on his trousers and his hands and under his nails and later it’d be a nuisance but at that moment he felt entirely content with it. He wouldn’t change a thing, not the flour on his clothes or the floor, or the spilled salt, or the smell of wood smoke.

“You’re still being too gentle, Mr Frodo,” he said. “It ain’t a baby.”

Frodo paused in his kneading. “Hm,” he said, ponderous.

“What?” said Sam.

“That’s a very peculiar image,” said Frodo. He went back to work, his hands moving upon the smooth surface of the dough, and Sam watched them, watched his wrists and fingers flex. “I mean, why would one be kneading a baby?” he said.

“I dunno,” said Sam. “You need to be firmer with it is all.”

_Smack_ went the dough on the wooden board. “Like this?”

“No – no,” said Sam. “You’ve got to use your whole body, like. Here –” He made a move to help, reaching for the dough, and Frodo stopped his kneading and shifted slightly, letting him in – but he didn’t take his hands away from the dough as Sam had expected, and without meaning to he put his hands atop Frodo’s.

His face heated and he knew he ought to snatch them away, to say sorry for touching him so, but before he could gather his thoughts Frodo looked at him, a slight smile upon his face, and said, “show me?”

“Like this,” said Sam, his confidence growing. “With the heel of your hands, see.” He put his hands fully over Frodo’s and pressed them down.

“Careful,” said Frodo, laughing a bit.

“Do you want proper bread or not, Mr Frodo?” said Sam. 

His fingers slipped betwixt Frodo’s, interweaving. The dough was warm and sticky against his hands, and it felt soft and good. He’d always liked the feel of bread dough. Frodo’s hands were oddly cool and they felt – comfortable, beneath his. His hands were bigger and they fit over Frodo’s so nicely.

“I rather think,” said Frodo, “we’re making a mess.”

“We ain’t,” said Sam. “You’ll see.” Frodo lifted the dough once again and pushed it back down, with all his arms this time. “_That’s_ it,” said Sam. “That’s more like it.”

He fitted his hands over Frodo’s again, and the dough was very sticky. This time when he made to pull away Frodo’s hands came with his, gummed together. “Whoops!” said Frodo, laughing, and Sam laughed too.

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Frodo. He began to work the dough off his hands, brushing and rubbing it back onto the board, and Sam did the same.

There were moments sometimes, in Bag End, where it felt as if he and Frodo were the only two hobbits in the Shire. It was as if the world had shrunk to the kitchen and the garden outside, and the making of bread, and their joined hands. Nothing else mattered.

“You’ve got flour on your nose,” he said.

“Do I?” Frodo wiped at it with the back of his hand.

“No – here,” said Sam, reaching out without thinking, dusting it off with his thumb.

“Better?” said Frodo.

“Mmm,” said Sam.

They were standing so close, now. He’d pressed in close to Frodo to help him with the bread and now without realising it he’d drawn in even closer. He could see the faint freckles on Frodo’s nose, make out all the colours in his eyes.

His hand was still on Frodo’s face. He ought to move it. He didn’t move it.

“Sam,” said Frodo, his voice low, and he’d never said Sam’s name like that before, in that voice.

All of a sudden it was as if Sam had been tipped upside down, or as if the world had tipped over with him in it. His stomach was light and a touch queasy. He wet his lips and felt Frodo’s eyes following the movement. _Glory_, but his eyes, they were so bright and so close, studying him so intently. 

Unthinking, Sam moved his thumb upon Frodo’s face, tracing the line of his cheekbone. Frodo’s gaze flicked down to his lips, and back again to meet his eyes.

Dipping his head forward Sam touched his nose to Frodo’s, just-barely nuzzling him. “Sam,” said Frodo, his voice soft and husky, and emboldened Sam kissed him.

Slow and tentative at first, almost chaste; then Frodo’s arms slid around him, pulling him closer, opening to him, and _oh_ but that was nice.

He’d kissed before but not like this. The kisses he’d had before had been frantic affairs, a clumsy prelude to the part where you took off your clothes. Heated, and urgent for release. There was heat here too but it was a low-burning heat, like a fire banked for the night.

A proper kiss – a grown-up kiss, he might call it. Long and slow and soft, meandering like a path through a forest, not minding about the destination, stopping on the way to look at the trees and the flowers.

His hand drifted up Frodo’s face, into his hair, probably getting flour all through it, not caring. The world had narrowed to this, to the space between their bodies, to the kiss. Frodo’s hands upon his back, holding him steady. Frodo’s mouth, his lips, guiding and coaxing him, doing things that made him shiver all up and down his body.

Slowly, by degrees, withdrawing. Sam opened his eyes. They stood so close he could feel Frodo’s breath upon his lips. Outside in the garden a bird was singing. He was breathing hard. His knees felt weak.

Reaching up Frodo took his hand, guiding it away from his face. “We should, um,” he said. “Get this in the oven?”

“The bread?” said Sam weakly. 

“Yes, the bread.” Frodo’s hand shifted from his back to his hips. He stepped away, but didn’t let go.

“Aye,” Sam said. “We should. The bread.”

Frodo released him. With the back of his hand he wiped flour from his face. “I hope we haven’t made a mess,” he said, and whether he meant the bread dough or the kissing Sam wasn’t sure and didn’t hazard a guess.

He didn’t want to talk about the bread. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance between them and cover Frodo with kisses. He wanted.

He said, “I’ll fetch the tins.”


End file.
